


Homestyle Comfort, Strider Style

by Mondo



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crushes, Incest, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Stridercest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-02-20 01:33:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2410139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mondo/pseuds/Mondo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave is having a hard time dealing with his crush on Bro.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enter: Dave Strider

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I started this a while back but never got around to finishing it. I feel like Bro's a bit OOC, but I really loved this idea. Comment any critiques you've got. I also wasn't planning on doing another chapter, but if you want one, comment and I'll try and write it.

You’re Dave Strider. Of course you are. Anyway, here you are, upset. You’ve got a crush on your bro. This is nothing new to you, but it is a major problem as of now. All the repressed thoughts and feelings are starting to drive you crazy. It’s fucking ridiculous. Your dislike of the situation can only be described as…You don’t know. You’re so wrapped up in thoughts of Bro. Dirk Strider. (You heard his real name when you were eavesdropping on a phone call he was making about some stupid bank shit.) Bro Strider.

That’s the only thing you can think of…him. You walk to the fridge. You think you’re starting to lose your cool. Ha, ha. Like you’d ever lose your chill. You’re fine. You pull the fridge handle, to open it. You open it, reaching to grab an A.J. but—

“Fuck!” Several katanas clang joyfully down from the fridge, almost lacerating your hand that was poised to reach for sweet, sweet, apple juice. Apple juice, not fucking swords. You feel your cool continuing to slip. You need to act quickly, before you lose it entirely. You kind of wish your tsundere bro had taught you how to keep your cool better.

You walk away from the fridge. You leave it open (fuck planet pals), and you leave the swords on the ground. It’s not like you’ve got anyone to protect from them anyway.

You start to walk to your room. You turn the quick corner, but a horrid, blue eyed face is watching you. Cal. Its eyes follow you, and you just….Fuck. Nah, not today. Fuck that shit. Nope. You sprint the rest of the way to your room.

You get into your room. You hate this situation, you really do. It’s a crock of fucking shit. You’re trying really hard to stay a coolkid. You keep your shades on your face, you do everything your Bro taught you, which was next to nothing, honestly.

Bro. This whole shit has come down to that elusive, mysterious, beautiful fucker. You fucking hate that it does, but it always does. Like six degrees to Kevin Bacon, but it’s “six more fucking minutes and I will implode”. It’s a weak-ass analogy but you don’t care.

You pull fingers through your hair, you crack your knuckles till they’re redder than your shirt. You mix angry beats, but they sound just like you feel. Mixed up and shitty. You try to talk to friends, but none of them are online.  You even try to jack off a couple of times, but nothing feels right. You pace around the room, you punch a pillow, you’re fucking trying, alright?

It’s not just this time, this instance of loving, lusting, wanting Bro. It’s every. Last. One. of them. It’s getting to be a lot, and you don’t know what to do. It’s so so much and it’s piling, piling, piling up and you just don’t know what to do with yourself to make that awful feeling _go away_.

You fucking hate that feeling. It’s a damp, soggy downward force, every time you look at Bro and you want to hug him, but “Striders are too cool for that”. Every time you think about him in a way that  maybe you shouldn’t (but dammit if he’s not really hot.) Every time you realize shit just won’t work out. You’d do almost anything to make it go away. And if there were any easy way, you would’ve done it about a thousand times. And then a thousand more.

You’ve got nothing else to do. As the coolkid in ironically begs to keep you from doing this, from succumbing to tears, you silence him. That coolkid can go to hell. You grab one of your pillows, rip off your shades, and curl up tightly on your bed. Maybe just the quiet, calm darkness can calm you down.

Nope. You’re in the fetal position, and the pillow comes between your thighs and your face. You scream, bloody motherfucking murder, the worry that bro will find you overridden by the need to release. The cry echoes out in your head, and you let it. You scream and scream and scream and scream.

You yell and you yell and you yell. You let every type of guttural, aching, long, low sound out of you. You push every sharp, acidic, painful screech from your body. 

 Your screams start to ebb and flow. Like waves. The anger, the nervous energy, the lust, they all fade out. These new shouts come out with an awkward, clunky grace, and wet the pillow with tears.

You’re crying. You’ve been thinking about Bro, you’ve been thinking about how lonely you are. You think about all the walls you’ve built. All the fuckups in your personality. Still. Your sobs roll into the pillow.

You realize you’re not going to see anyone the way you see him. And he’s going to see anyone but you in that same way. Your rolling sobs continue. Over and over. Your eyes start to hurt, and your whole body is suddenly so sore from how tightly you’ve curled up. Your mind is spent. You let go of the pillow, and sprawl out on your bed, face smeared with tears.

You look absently into your doorway, not expecting to see anything. Bro’s deep in the throes of making another foam porno, you’re pretty sure. You tried to keep your yelling down, anyway.

But as you look into the doorway, you see a person there. You see Bro Strider, the cause of your anguish. Fuckety fuck. Haaaaaa, this situation is gonna be a code red b-i-t-c-h to explain. Hopefully Strider suave and some quick thinking can out-think Bro.

Out-think the master of mind games? Never mind. You’re fucked.

He speaks first, “Dave.” He leans casually enough in the doorway, but you still see him ready for a fight, ready for action just in case something might happen.  He doesn’t say anything else, so you reply.

“Wh-what?” You use ab strength to pull your torso up, to face him. “The fuck do you want?” You sit on the edge of your bed, crossing your arms. You uncross them immediately. It looks too defensive. He probably picked up on that, but you might be able to pass it off as him startling you.

“Oh, not much. I’m just wondering what all that fucking screaming was about.” He steps quickly—not quite a flashstep, but faster than you would’ve liked—and sits on your bed. He finishes his statement, by saying “Care to share?” with the voice of a kindergarten teacher, a syrupy lilt that kind of made you want to puke. Or kiss him. Dear God, not both, though.

You shrug, raising a single blonde eyebrow, and drawing the corner of your lip towards your chin. You’re the picture of nonchalance. It is you. “Eh. Just felt like screaming for the hell of it.” You pull your shades back on, knowing he’d try to read you glances at him.

Bro reaches back, and grabs the pillow you’d been screaming (and totally not crying) into. He sees the fading stains, and raises his own eyebrow. “Yeah. Okay. For the hell of it.”

He takes his sarcasm higher. “Yep, this pillow was wetted with tears—“

You object. “Bro, those,-- that’s,-- I wasn’t crying.” You’d only added fuel to the sarcasm fire, though. It was too late. Bro was going to use freaky-fast deduction skills, and get you found out quicker than Jimmy-John’s can make a sandwich.

“Well, you were screaming, and doing, oh, I dunno. Masturbating? Pissing? Spitting? Whatever it is you do on this pillow, and screaming, too. Seems logical. If you own up to crying, maybe you can salvage the idea I have of your sanity.”

You pout, a petulant, angry, sad, oh-jesus-bro-i-love-you face.

“Fine. I was crying. I was fucking upset, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

Bro raised an eyebrow, face cooler than ice. “Go on.”

Confusion brushed your face but you quickly mimicked his calm demeanor. “Well, I was upset, and I’ve been on edge, and high strung, and tense, and angry, and sad, and I let it out. I know it’s not the “cool” or the “Strider” thing to do, but sometimes I need to deal with my shit the way I’m gonna deal with my shit. “

Bro looked at you, and nodded. “Mmkay. Last question. What the hell had you so upset, dude?” He took off his shades. Damn. You knew that when the shades were off, it was serious Strider confession time. Also, Strider rituals dictate that when one Strider removes his shades, all the Striders in the room must do so as well. You pulled your shades off, and thought about how to word this. Here goes.

“Well, okay. I…like you. As more than a bro, I guess. To put it into twelve-year-old words, I like-like you. Which has been getting me down and also sort of horny but that ain’t really the point. But I’ve been pushing that aside, trying to save face, and this has been going on for years, man, fucking years. And there are the dreams where you die, those are the scariest, and I remember how weak I am on my own, how I’ve never done anything heroic or anything worthwhile, how I’m a waste and you should have a better bro than me, how I shouldn’t even be called your bro, how much I fucking suck, how many times I’ve fucked everything up, and I just don’t know what—“

Bro pulled you into a tight hug. He looked into your eyes. It was his turn to start talking.

“Okay, man. I won’t say I like you back, because I don’t. I’m sorry to hell and back about that one, because I can tell now that it’s killing you. But I will try and be the best bro I can be. Maybe I’ll sneak in a hug every so often. Only when you don’t want them, though. Anyway, I’ll offer my support when I can, little man, because that’s what I’m here for. And don’t talk so bad about yourself, Davey. You’re a swag kid, alright? You’re learning, you’re growing up, you’ll figure it out. And when I die? You’ll have a way to deal with your shit. I can tell you that. And you’ve got six other people to help you with that, not to mention your troll friends or whatever.”

He pulled you into another hug, and brushed his lips against your forehead, before putting his shades on, giving you a quick nod (which you reciprocated), and flash-stepping out the room.

Leave it to Bro Strider to dish out some homestyle comfort when you needed it.

Best bro. Best bro ever.


	2. Enter: Bro Strider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's from Bro's POV, I wanted to write it that way, I thought it'd be interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added some weird elements to Bro's train of thought, I hope it's not to OOC. Bro's way of thinking is a little jumpier than Dave's, the way I've written it, which I don't think is 100% accurate to Bro's character.

ENTER: BRO STRIDER

You casually sharpen your throwing stars. Dave is clanging around the kitchen and swearing, though this time it’s a little more “panicked and upset”, rather than “inconvenienced and bored” like it usually is. 

Dave kind of worries you. He doesn’t use anything as an outlet, he doesn’t even vent when you two strife. It’s concerning. But he hasn’t exploded or died or anything, so you figure he’s channeling his emotions somehow. 

The beats he mix are shitty, and you hear some keyboard smashing, and…

Is Dave screaming? What the hell? Walking to Dave’s room (silently, of course, you want to scope out the situation), you lean into his room, and see Dave. There he lies, curled up and yelling. Or, crying. Or, whatever he’s doing. 

Oh, fuck. This must be the big one. The ass-kicker. You’re guessing that Dave actually didn’t have an outlet at all, and just kept all his shit tucked away.  
Whatever baby Dave’s been hiding is coming to beat him up, and it’s winning. You step out of his room and lean a wall outside the short hallway that leads to Dave’s room, making sure you’re out of sight. 

Honestly, it’s pretty painful to hear him struggle with whatever he’s struggling with. You want to go in and figure out what’s fucking with him, so you can at least help him. But you’re going to have to wait for Dave to stop. He’s not going to listen to a word you say if you try to intervene while he’s still vulnerable.  
Finally, the scratchy sobs subside. You hear a gentle fwump, and figure Dave’s uncurled himself. You’d give the kid a little more time to compose himself, but you figure you need to assess this situation before it kills him. 

Alright, Strider, it’s Game Time. You think of this as a sort of emotional strife. 

Strife! It’s your move first. You use ALOOF INTRODUCTION. “Dave.”

Dave’s turn. He uses ABRUPT ARISE. “The fuck do you want?”

Your turn. He’s putty in your hand. You use ACCUSATION of AUDIBLE ARTICLES. “Oh, I was just wondering what all that fucking screaming was about.” And before he has time to react, you also use ACCELERATED ACTION (it’s really just flashstepping) to sit right next to him.

Dave returns with APATHETIC AMBIGUITY. “You know, just screaming for the hell of it.”

You counter that by using ACCUSATION of more ARDENT ACTIVITY. “Yep. Okay. Sure. For the hell of it.” It’s technically Dave’s turn, but he doesn’t seem to want to make a move. Well, you take another stab. Continuing with your Accusation of more Ardent Activity. “This pillow was wetted with tears—“ 

Suddenly, Dave cuts you off. “I, that, I wasn’t crying.”

You’re caught off-guard for less than a second, before your rebuttal comes, in the form of an ABSOLUTE ALLEGATION of your ADVERSARY’S ABSENCE of EMOTIONAL ACCURACY. “…If you own up to crying, maybe you can salvage the idea I have of your sanity.”

Dave’s face sours, and then softens ever so slightly. He reluctantly uses ADMITTANCE OF AFOREMENTIONED ACTIVITIES: “Well, I was upset, and I’ve been on edge, and high strung, and tense, and angry, and sad, and I let it out…”

You weren’t quite armed for that, even though that was exactly what you were waiting to hear. You don’t let it show on your face, and you come back with a simple ASKING for an INFORMATIONAL ADVANCE OF AFOREMENTIONED ACTIVITIES. “Go on.”

When Dave finally does go on, he keeps it short. He doesn’t even bother rambling to change the subject, even though it’s something he’s clearly uncomfortable with.  
Well, it’s time for you to retaliate with…

You know what? Fuck that. You’re about to approach this wrong. You’ve probably been approaching this wrong. You need to talk to him, not fight him. You need to stand with him, not across from him. You’re not supposed to juxtapose yourself from him, constantly ready to fight if you need to. Emotions aren’t war, and you aren’t going to treat the ground between you and Dave like a battlefield, goddammit. 

You take off your shades, it’s time to spit it sick and act real with Dave, which you should’ve been doing before. You hang out in the “-real” too much. The ethereal, the surreal, the sub-real. You’re about to get real-real, right know. 

“What the hell’s got you so upset, dude?”  
When Dave finally rambles on, you swear your heart melts just a little bit, but you keep it together. Dave needs some picking up, and you’re gonna try to get this kid to the moon.  
Without any of the scripting or planning that you usually use when you talk to Dave, you say what you need to say. You hug Dave close for a second, and decide you ought to start saying something. As you’re talking, you inwardly criticize some of the weird, too-mushy or just plain stupid shit that comes out your mouth.  
“Okay, man. I won’t say I like you back, because I don’t. I’m sorry to hell and back about that one, because I can tell now that it’s killing you. But I will try and be the best bro I can be. Maybe I’ll sneak in a hug every so often."

“Anyway, I’ll offer my support when I can, little man, because that’s what I’m here for. And don’t talk so bad about yourself, Davey. You’re learning, you’re growing up, you’ll figure it out. And when I die? You’ll have a way to deal with your shit. I can tell you that. And you’ve got six other people to help you through it, too, not to mention your troll friends or whatever. 

You feel like you haven’t quite concluded the moment, so you stand up and give Dave one of your state-of-the-art forehead kisses. It’s a special trick, you can’t stay for very long, just barely brush your lips over their forehead, and leave them wondering if it ever really happened. 

You’re the best bro, it’s you.


End file.
